Generations

Yesterday, I found myself being mothered. It was an odd feeling, but a comforting one. Since moving out on my own, lo those many years ago, I haven’t had all that many instances of being mothered.

When the inlaw(s) came to visit, I was the host. In addition to the tending of the children, I also tended to the houseguests. There was very little tending to me. And, when visiting the inlaws, I was a “good guest” who tended to the host. I seemed to pick partners whose parents needed tending to.

But yesterday, I was a guest at a friend’s gathering. Her parents were there, taking care of business. I kept offering to help but was denied opportunities. So I relaxed while they grilled the chicken, sauteed the mushrooms, prepared the pasta and all the other what-have-yous. I was gently teased that I didn’t know how to grate parmesan if I wasn’t Italian. Once I looked up through the kitchen window and saw Dad washing some dishes while Mom sat and relaxed. What a nice partnership, I thought.

It made me realize how tired I was. Tired of being the caretaker. Tired of directing the show. Tired of being responsible. Even when you have a loving and caring partner, as I had so recently, there’s still the background noise of “being responsible.” The worry of where the kids are. What they’re doing. What they haven’t done that they’ve been asked to do 13 times. Bills that must be paid, shopping to be done and WHO IS GOING TO CLEAN UP THIS MESS and am I the only one who cares.

How nice it was to be a “kid” again while the older generation took care of details. How lucky my friend is to have her parents living so close that she occasionally gets to be a “kid.” Parents who pitch in to help without being controlling.

The richness of multiple generations at parties has always enthralled me. Making conversation with “The Grownups” -- as a kid, I often enjoyed my friends parents as much as I enjoyed my friends. I love hearing stories about what my friends were like in their youth. Watching my friend with her parents, I could imagine the fun and playfulness that existed in their household. I understood her humor a bit better, seeing the roots of it. Mutual teasing belied mutual respect with a bit of “I knew you when.”

It reminded me a bit of being back home -- a place I haven’t gone all that frequently in my adult life. But when I have, I’ve treasured the mutual eye-rolling of acceptance and acknowledgement when someone acts true to form. The we-love-you-anyway-eye-rolling. Every visit, trying to piece together the family tree. No matter how many times we made Daddy tell it, so much of that oral history died when he did. Who is going to remember his summer job at the Campbell’s soup factory unless we pass it down.

Pay attention, youngsters. One day, this will be important to you.